


reflection of a free fall

by ModestlyHomo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Sherlock, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, blind, fucking angst out the ANUS, x500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModestlyHomo/pseuds/ModestlyHomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pregnant pause and the longer John looks at the man, laced with bruises and cuts and bandages, a feral anger suddenly lashes out. “Can you try not to bloody blow yourself up for just a day, Sherlock?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	reflection of a free fall

**Author's Note:**

> well this starts out a bit more depressing and emotional than i actually intended but hey everyone this is my first attempt at some johnlock ((((((((((((((((((: pleeeeeeeeeeease gimme some feedback, would greatly appreciate it! xxx

 

 

 

            Sherlock knows better. He remembers from the endless hours of stories his grandfather would recall; the drone of his voice playing out a war story— _flash grenade—POP! Next thing you know, your retinal pigment is bleached and you can’t see anything for a couple of minutes._ Perhaps the incessant reminder from his mum— _don’t stare at the sun, for christ’s sake Sherlock, you’ll go blind!_

            Even with a heed of caution to these things, Sherlock still remembers being splayed upon the grass in the heat of summer as a child, staring at the sun. His mother’s desperate reminders replaying over and over in his head as his eyes began to form giant black spots that moved and shimmered. By the time he’d force himself to look away, his eyes would strain and ache as they desperately readjusted. Sherlock would run his fingers over the fleshy space under his eyes and sink into his grandfather’s monotone drawl— _POP!_ Even the onomatopoeia’s were lackluster in verbal definition, and Sherlock would find himself reconstructing his stories in his head with much more vigor and finesse.

            So with his history of cautionary recurrences in retinal bleaching (and the vast knowledge of everything _else_ ), Sherlock knows _far_ better than to “experiment” with unstable compounds such as Diazomethane.

            Sherlock is simply recording his observations of the yellow gas reacting with phenols when he decides he’d like to see if he can replicate a controlled combustion. And in the vast knowledge of everything there ever is and/or was in his (otherwise) brilliant mind, he begins heating the gas.

            Sherlock is smart enough to not be standing directly beside the lab equipment holding the Diazomethane, and is instead at the furthest end of the lab in St. Bart’s. He _really_ knows better.

            And when the substance begins its ascent over 100C, he finds himself staring hungrily at the equipment, waiting for the sun to come bursting out and parching his retinas—which is essentially what visually happens.

            There is an enormous blast of noise, followed by a much more powerful wave of force than Sherlock anticipated—this slams him against the nearest wall, followed by shards of glass and charred lab reports. His ears are ringing so harshly it nearly drowns out the wailing of the fire alarms going off throughout the hospital.

            Sherlock lets out a stifled groan, his head feeling heavy and body especially unusable. He feels soot matted on his cheeks and hands, and idly wonders if he’ll ever be invited back to St. Bart’s to do his much needed chemical experimentations. The idea is distasteful, and a bitter frown pulls onto his mouth as he sits on the edge of consciousness, sprawled on the floor with the explosive light of the reaction replaying over and over behind his closed eyes.

            It is when he opens his eyes, does the panic actually set in. He sees nothing.

            There are no shreds of ceiling tiles, charred by the blast; no flickering fluorescent lights—just a shimmering blackness that moves with all different hues of discomforting colours. _POP!_ His grandfather’s voice is so clear in his mind that for a moment Sherlock wonders if he is standing over his shrewdly positioned body upon the floor, mocking his sheer brilliance.

            Panic engulfs him as his body stiffens and moves his hands to his face, desperately raking his fingers along it, trying to see. This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. Far worse than any flash blindness he’s ever heard of; there is not a shred of light leaking in around the shimmering black, and he lets out a defeated cry.

            He tries to pull himself to his hands and knees, scrambles about the wreckage of glass, cutting his fingers as he feels a helpless cry break his throat. _Nothing._

            “Joh-- _John!”_ He bleats in horror, as though the man is just around the corner. “I can’t see—I-I—“ His voice stutters out into a terrified cry. “John—“

“—Sherlock?” Molly’s unmistakable shrill cuts through the sound of something on fire and glass plinking onto the floor, “Sherlock—are you alright—“ He feels her thin fingers trying to help him up and his face twists into one of frustration and anger. He blindly shoves her hands away, a move of desperation.

“Where’s John?” He spits at her vehemently, body trembling and seizing as he continually tries to pull himself up to his feet.

“Sherlock, stop _moving_ , you’re going to hurt yourself more—the paramedics are on their way—“

“Don’t send the bloody _paramedics_ , you bigot, my doctor is _John_.” His voice is bristling and deep in his chest as it rushes out, more panicked than he’s felt in quite some time. Molly makes a small noise as she tries to keep him still. The wail of the fire alarm drones on and on. He finds purchase with his roving, bloodied hands on a stool, and attempts to haul himself up off the ground.

As soon as he hefts his weight to his feet, the blood rushes to his head and his knees buckle from underneath him. He hits the shattered glass littered floor with Molly’s frantic cry of his name the last thing he hears before falling into a numb blackness.

 

 

John pushes into the front entrance of St Bart’s with his jaw tense, back ridged and fists clenched. His breathing is quick and eyes solidly fixed ahead of him, his thoughts rushing so far ahead of him he nearly pushes through the doors into the patient’s wing—and he would’ve if a nurse hadn’t called after him.

“Sir—sir! You can’t go back there; can I ask what you’re trying to do?” The short nurse asks quickly, seemingly out of breath. John pauses, his lips pressed into a hard line, eyes momentarily narrowing.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says under his breath, voice tense, “or, excuse me, the bloody moron who apparently blew up one of your labs just now.”

The nurse’s face flashes recognition and she lets out a faux-pert noise, “Are you family? We’re not accepting visitors at the moment—“

“No—No, I’m his _doctor._ Doctor John Watson, GP just down the way.” He breathes out impatiently, as she flusters visibly like a hen just prodded with a stick.

“Oh, my apologies sir—doctor—follow me, he’s in room 12C.” She bustles ahead, pushing open the doors and leading him through the sterile smelling white wash halls. “He’s had some head trauma, the blast was enough to bleach his retinal pigment harshly. He’s pretty frantic, has been begging for you all afternoon.”

John stiffens at that, brows crossing as he tilts his head, “..Begging?” His voice lilts and the corner of his mouth presses into his cheek as though that is the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard; Sherlock Holmes _begging._

The nurse looks over her shoulder at him curiously, “Are you two.. oh never mind it’s not my place to ask.”

A zip of heat runs up his neck to the tip of his ears and he lets out a frustrated noise, clenching his fists and shaking his head abruptly before he pushes past the nurse when he spots 12C. “Thanks.” He clips shortly, pushing into the room.

Sherlock is sat stiffly upright in the hospital bed, his skin still stark against the pale blue hospital gown. He’s staring blankly ahead of him, until the disruption of the door being opened stirs him and his eyes turn to where John is, except they’re positioned unsettlingly just to the left of him.

“John.” He says on the downbeat of a breath, as though he’s sighing with relief but isn’t keen on letting John know.

“I’d thought being blind would make your brilliance far less… potent.” John says through a breathy, half-attempted laugh. He regrets it when Sherlock doesn’t even smile—which isn’t all that rare in itself, but the fact that his temporarily blind eyes flinch before slowly closing with a long sigh.

The pregnant pause and the longer John looks at the man, laced with bruises and cuts and bandages, a feral anger suddenly lashes out. “Can you try not to bloody blow yourself up for just a _day,_ Sherlock?”

“Why?” Sherlock’s voice is a grating clash, low and hissing, “Am I too much of a… _liability_ for John Watson?” Over pronunciation of each word has them plunging deep into John, so much that he physically recoils.

“ _No_.” John snaps, “Because there are people that, I don’t know, care about you. That, maybe—just maybe,” his voice simmers out to a poisonous whisper, “don’t want you _dead_ again.”

Sherlock’s face drops, his eyes twitch and rove about, suddenly looking desperate to see. John bites the inside of his cheek to keep from letting out too shaky a breath to give away something he’s still trying to conceal.

“ _John_.” He groans, leaning back rigidly into the bed, as though he’s having one of his petulant pity parties for the lesser minds in the room, and John bristles.

“Don’t _John_ me,” he pauses to bite his tongue and cringe with a viciously sharp breath, “You think because I forgave you for deceiving me— _leaving_ me for three years, that that makes all of those fears vanish? News flash, but not everyone is as blessedly graced with the whole no empathy thing.” His voice laments, shaking and quietly seething.

Sherlock has his eyes closed now, and before he reopens them he takes a deep breath and licks his lips as though he’s preparing to say something. A muscle in his jaw twitches and he stares blankly at the wall in front of him. “Home.”

John clenches his fists and looks up at the ceiling shaking his head, “I don’t know what I expected, honestly _._ ” He says mostly to himself, letting out a harsh breath through his nose.

 

 

 

At home, Sherlock is poignant and stiflingly stubborn to John’s offer of help. He lays, long and pale against the couch with his head rested back on the arm, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“Do you need anything from Tesco’s?” John asks, his voice trying to hide resentment. Sherlock turns his face towards the door where John’s voice emanated from. A dull ache resonates deep in his chest, and he steeples his fingers against his lips as he rests his head back again.

He pulls his fingers away just enough to let out a tense breath, “John, I don’t require your… _doting_.” His voice simmers out, breaking slightly. He clenches his jaw, crossing his legs over one another. The shimmering blackness of his bleached retinas remains with no signs of progression. Constantly, _constantly_ moving as his unseeing eyes flit about the ceiling; so much movement it could make someone nauseated. He hears John let out a defeated breath and he turns his head to face him again. The dull ache returns and he closes his eyes, trying to recollect some sort of image of John standing there in the doorway. And one would expect him to do so masterfully, but his head is filled with words and numbers and smells and textures—not perfectly clear images.

Distinctive _John_ things come to mind, though, as he tries to conjure up some image to sate his need. Things like the exact scent of his cologne, lingering with a sheer layer of sweat caused by adrenaline. Or the sound of his bare footsteps in the kitchen, even with the dismissal of his psychosomatic limp, he still tends to favor his left leg; or the sound of his voice when he’s offering Sherlock tea first thing in the morning, the feel of his callused palm on his knee, the exact diameter of his pupil when fully dilated. The horrifying sound of his ragged breathing as he stands over his best friend with fake blood matted thickly in his hair in the interweaving of his elaborate hoax. All of these things swarm in his head until an uncomfortable lump forms in his throat and he swallows to try and ease it.

“You certainly require my _doting_ when you have perfectly good sight, so I’d recommend you allow me to _help you_ when you actually need it.” John’s voice is surprisingly quiet, and Sherlock imagines his face is crumpled with some sort of expression of hopelessness.

“I’m not your responsibility.” Sherlock says, and it comes out far more pitiful than he intended.

“ _No_ , but you’re my friend.”

“Friend?” The word sits heavy in his mouth as though the meaning behind it is hollow. He lets out a bitter laugh, trying to cover up the pain in his chest, “I would have thought this would’ve been the _last_ _straw_ , John.”

“—Last— _straw?_ ” John’s voice rushes out, and Sherlock can hear the hints of a sarcastic smile in his words, along with welling emotion.

“The _last straw,_ Sherlock, was when you decided to,” he takes a deep breath, his voice trembling with sudden rage, “when you decided to kill yourself right in _front_ of me. My best friend, playing dead for three years, leaving me to pick up the pieces of everything you left behind—you may not have died that day but _I did._ ” His voice is swelling and crashing like the sea, so loud there is no doubt that Mrs. Hudson will be making a trip up later. Sherlock has never heard nor seen John Watson cry, but he can hear the tears thick in his voice.

“Then why are you still here?” His voice clips out, word by word like a gavel, they sting his tongue and he can physically feel John recoil from across the room.

“Fuck you.” He spits, before the door slams so hard it shakes the entire room. The words are like barbs, sitting deep in Sherlock’s skin, and he lays stiffly, the pain in his chest growing. He replays those two words in his head over and over, as though inspecting a stone—turning it over and over in his palms until he knows every crack and crevice and indenture. He turns his face into the back of the sofa, breathing in shallowly. His entire body aches, and for the first time in 30 years, he feels the overwhelming—foreign—urge to sob.

Not even Redbeard holds a candle to John Watson.

His face draws in, blind eyes fighting to stay open against the hideous burning, the pent up breath that explodes as a sudden sob from his mouth crumbles. His eyes pinch shut as he presses his face further into the sofa and sobs brokenly, clutching at the front of his robe as though it is the only thing holding him together.

 _Fuck you, Sherlock, you_ know _why._

 

 

 

John doesn’t return until 6 hours later, until he’s sure the swelling underneath his eyes has gone down enough, and the wetness of his eyes has dried. He stands outside the front door for quite some time, looking up at the windows, at the curtains pulled shut for the night, only a meek ray of light from the dull lamp can be seen. He steps back, pushing his hands in his coat pockets, letting out a slow breath.

            _Oscillation on the pavement…_

            He cringes, a dull ache throbs deep in his chest. He bites the inside of his cheek and closes his eyes, trying to take even breaths. He regretted saying what he did to Sherlock as soon as he descended the stairs. But after everything, with the deductive reasoning skills the man has, it should certainly be _obvious._ It should be so obvious that Sherlock calls him on it every single time. John _wants_ him to call him on it. After _everything_ , he wants Sherlock to look at him with all of the intensity of his slate grey eyes, seeing or blind, and tell him he’s known it all along. John doesn’t even care if it’s mutual anymore, he is past the point of caring. The secret of his love for Sherlock has grown to a lesion, a painful tumor that begs to be removed—painfully or not.

            With these thoughts, he finally wills himself to open the front door. The hall is dark, and the faint smell of pastries and tea permeates the air. He’s pulling himself up the first step when Mrs. Hudson’s door opens.

            “John?” Her voice is thin with worry, and he pauses, closing his eyes with a tired sigh.

            “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

            She shuffles further out into the hall, illuminated faintly by the light leaking from her doorway. “Are you boys alright? I’ve never heard such loud shouting from you two.” She whispers, eyes glistening, her frail hand moving to cover John’s on the banister.

            John avoids her eyes, and instead looks up at the ceiling. “I certainly hope so.” His voice is quiet, and Mrs. Hudson makes a sad noise.

            “Oh, John…” she says in that way that makes him feel pitiful, and he hangs his head, defeated.

            Mrs. Hudson has always known; John’s no bigot. Her harmless misjudgments haven’t been far off from reality, and when Sherlock was dead, and John was alone in 221B for the first night, he’d sobbed so loudly she’d come up and held him the remainder of the night. _I loved him and he left._ His chest aches uncontrollably at the memory.

            “Did you tell him?” Her voice is still so quiet, eyes steady on John.

            He shakes his head with a withered sigh, “No, and he’s too thick to deduct it himself.”

            “It seems that way, doesn’t it, love?” She breathes, a faux smile pulling up on her lips. She pauses, “Are you going to?”

            John meets her eyes now, and a hopeless fear fills the pit of his stomach. “I don’t know.”

            She shakes her head, “It’s not my place to say, but Sherlock is a lot of things, but he’ll never give you up, John. Even if he doesn’t… love you back,” she lowers her voice, “But the way he looks at you…” There’s wetness in her eyes and she looks away momentarily with a giddy laugh. The sound is surprisingly pleasant.

            Silence follows and he flips his hand to give hers a tentative squeeze. “I’ll let you know when and if I do,” he pauses, “Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson.” He pats her hand twice, before she nods up at him slowly and he ascends the stairs.

            “Good luck.” He hears her call after him, and his stomach fills with dread.

 

            The sitting room is empty, and the stale scent of cigarette smoke assaults John’s senses and another sickness falls over him. If he hadn’t already had the energy leeched from him, he would curse Sherlock to hell and back. But he just stands stiffly in the doorway, looking around as though he half expects him to appear on the couch at any moment, cigarette in hand.

            He stands there for quite some time, dead eyed and staring at the ironic smiley face on the wall, considering putting a few holes in it himself. Long enough, to hear the shower running and several questions come to mind, like if he’s eaten anything, and if he’s having a difficult time with maneuvering without his sight.

            Frustration envelopes him and he clenches his fists, wanting to smother that doting part of him until it’s completely suffocated and shriveled up. There’s no point in doting on someone who doesn’t appreciate the gesture.

            He decides that putting tea on might help calm his shot nerves, and he moves to the stove to set the kettle on. He’s stood, leaning against the counter trying not to think when a noise erupts from the bath. He stiffens, leaning forward, and when he hears the sound of the shower curtain being ripped off the hooks followed by a horrifying thud, John is moving for the door before he can even think twice, his body tense and thoughts racing a mile a minute.

            He swings the door open, and the scene lain before him could have been comedic if it weren’t for all the blood. Sherlock is laid across the tile floor, knocked unconscious, completely bare and soaking wet. Blood is weeping from an open wound just above his eyebrow, and John freezes momentarily.

            “ _Sher_ -Sherlock.” He says, stepping carefully around him, trying to focus on the wound, rather than his long, pale body beaded with water, and dark hair matted wetly against his forehead. He looks defenseless, and part of John feels guilty for looking on him when he has no say. But then again, he needs John; the man definitely will have a concussion.

            A feeling of importance graces John as he wedges his hands underneath Sherlock’s knees and shoulders and heaves him up into his arms. No matter how stubborn Sherlock is, he always ends up needing John in some manner.

            His body is limp and head rolls back as John carries him to his bedroom, the front of his shirt completely soaked by the time he lays him gently on the bed. He flips on the bedside lamp, which is hardly an excuse for a light source, but it’s enough to bring Sherlock into focus. John lets out a small breath, running his wet hands over his face. In the million different ways he has played out this moment in his head, this was never one of them. He swallows hard, before deciding he’s not sane enough to actually dress the man, and decides to just tuck him under the covers.

            He then goes about fetching sterilized wipes to clean Sherlock’s wound. When he returns, he is still unconscious, and John begins to feel even more nervous. He sits on the edge of the bed, looking over the shadows cast in the hollows of his cheeks and under his eyelashes. His peaceful expression and the drying blood on his forehead two ironic observations. John tears open a fresh packet of sterile wipes and begins to gently dab at the gash.

            “Look at what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he whispers, heart suddenly feeling heavy in his chest as he wipes away the last bit of blood, “Have no choice but to let me help you now.” He laughs quietly, solemnly. His hand doesn’t fall away when he’s finished cleaning the wound, instead slowly—tentatively traces along his jaw and chin until he snatches it away as though he’d been burned. He looks down at his lap, ashamed and embarrassed that he’d do something so affectionate.

            The whirring noise of the fridge down the hall and quiet plinking of rain on the window fills the void of silence, along with the rabbiting of John’s heart—which almost drowns out everything altogether. He’s smoothing down his trousers and slowly standing when something violently catches him off guard.

            “John.” Sherlock’s voice is slow, and John gasps audibly, his blood solidifies in his veins. His attention snaps to Sherlock’s face; eyes still closed, face same as it had been since John laid him down. _Of course, of course --Should’ve expected something like this to happen._ A million things come swarming into his head and the blood drains from his face. Now all he wants to do is retreat to his own room and disappear for a while.

            “I’m going to bed, I’m sorry.” John’s voice betrays him, face crumbling with the emotion that Sherlock would have to be blind to miss—and even though luck may seem to be on his side, Sherlock’s voice breaks through every barrier he’s placed up in the past three years.

            “Thank you.” His voice is vulnerable, and that’s what takes John off guard, followed by the full weight of those two words coming from Sherlock’s mouth—it all is a punch right to the sternum and it has John reeling. After everything, those two words were the last thing he thought he’d ever receive. He’s somewhat glad the man can’t see the contorted expression on his face, mouth slightly agape, cheeks flushed and eyes fixed steadily on him—as though he expects him to take it back any second.

            “What?” John says finally, not because he needs a literal recap, but because he’s not sure what else to say. Sherlock opens his eyes at that, and a look cascades over his face that shutters through so many different emotions in one second that John can’t even catalogue one distinct emotion.

            That is until it rests on one, and John realizes his sight has returned. Sherlock’s eyes rake over John as though he’s drinking in every little molecule of his being like he’d been completely parched of his existence. It makes John tremble, and he stands at the foot of his bed as though he has a lead ball and chain keeping him there.

            “ _John_.” His voice rushes out, and then he’s crying. Crying, with his eyes squeezed shut and hands clutching his damp curls, with John staring at him—completely startled. And then something mentally clicks, like the hot wire of two long forgotten strands in the olfactory part of his brain, and he’s moving onto the bed, carefully settling in beside Sherlock. The man’s face is strained and red, tears stain his cheeks and John is so frightened by this image all he can do is pull him into his chest and let him soak the front of his shirt.

            “I’m so sorry, John.” He sobs out into his chest, clutching onto his shirt as though John’s the only reason he’s still here and not floating about the universe as some ethereal wisp of who he once was. And John knows this is not something to be brushed off, and it tugs at every fibre of his being until he’s stroking Sherlock’s hair and back, cooing at him.

            When Sherlock is able to take deep gulps of air, and steady his trembling body to just rest his head on John’s chest, the weight of the situation begins to permeate the air. John stiffens, but Sherlock only wraps his arms around his waist as a bid to stay just a while longer. The action makes every atom in John wallow and wail with an agony that can’t quite be compared to much else.

            _He’s just vulnerable; he doesn’t know what he’s doing._

Sherlock’s thick, further tear deepened voice cuts through his thoughts, “I don’t deserve a… friend like you.” The word _friend_ is weighted with something, as though it’s not what should be used in that sentence between two men held together by one’s tears and the other’s unrequited love.

            “No, you don’t,” John says gruffly, letting out a small laugh to try and ease the welling pain. He squeezes the back of Sherlock’s neck lightly, “But I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be chasing after through the streets of London.”

            The statement has a lot more meaning than John initially realizes, and he winces. He feels Sherlock smile against his chest, though, and he feels somewhat relieved. He doesn’t remove his hand from the back of his neck, instead barely traces his thumb back and forth over his hairline. Until Sherlock lifts his head from his chest and his eyes focus sharply on John’s, and the air stutters from his chest. His cheeks are tinted pink and eyes vulnerably soft and swollen, eyelashes thick with tears. John’s never seen anything so beautiful.

            “Would you happen to know that dreadful American gospel, Amazing Grace?” Sherlock inquires rather suddenly, his face so close that John can hardly focus on the question. A nervous laugh burbles up from John’s chest and he nods with a confused expression.

            “I wouldn’t say it’s in my top ten—“ John stifles another giggle, feeling incredibly wary under Sherlock’s fire-poker gaze.

            “It’s a mantra of melodic notes that go absolutely no where about some slave trader that ‘ _came to the light of God’_ and further on became an abolitionist—but if you take the lyrics at face value, I think they’re quite fitting.” Sherlock says, voice affectionately curling around his version of a joke.

            John raises his eyes to the ceiling, mentally reciting the words.

            _That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see._

“Oh,” he says involuntarily, as though he had mentally punched him in the gut. His eyes slowly fall back down to meet Sherlock’s, and it’s like the entire air around them has an electric charge.

            “ _Oh_.” Sherlock mocks, rolling his eyes with an exasperated breath before leaning his face forward to press his mouth to John’s, who momentarily forgets the necessity of breathing and that it’s widely accepted as strange to keep your eyes open when you’re kissing someone. Yet, his eyes are wide open, and mouth stiff against Sherlock’s as his mind tries to catch up to what’s actually occurring.

            And then it hits him with so much force that he has to bite back tears of relief, and with it, closes his eyes and kisses him back with everything he has. John pulls him closer to his chest and clutches his hands into the wisps of curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock brings his hands to weave into the back of his hair and trace his thumbs along the corner of his jaw while he pulls back to plant several kisses over and over again to his lips, that kiss back like an echo; that follow like someone who desires no one else but Sherlock to chase through the streets of London.

 

 

           

           

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
